


Dusk

by autumnstorm451



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-16
Updated: 2016-07-16
Packaged: 2018-07-24 09:46:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7503643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/autumnstorm451/pseuds/autumnstorm451
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>McCree mulls over some things over a glass of whiskey in a dusty old bar.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dusk

Jesse McCree did not consider himself a good person. As far as he was concerned, he never had been a good person. Ever since he was born, he only managed to hurt people. Whether it was getting into brawls, stealing from others, or outright shooting other people, he was there. He was a notorious Deadlock Gang member; something to behold, and to fear. 

So, it struck him as just a little bit odd that he was sitting here, saving lives as some kind of half-baked vigilante. The years really do have their effects, he supposed. It's not like he ever had a choice in the matter, anyways.

When Overwatch busted his gang for their illicit arms deals, he was caught square in the middle of the mess. Just as usual for Jesse McCree. He was given an offer - get sent to a prison, or join them. And, well, if you can't beat them... you join them, right?

Back when he was a little boy, he got into trouble, and got into it often. This carried on throughout his entire life. That moment was a culmination of all the trouble he ever had gotten into. He should have rebelled against it, or found some way out of it. So, why did it stop him in his tracks so?

McCree wasn't sure of the answer. So he sat there, in the middle of some bar he couldn't even remember the name of, contemplating this question over a glass of whiskey. The bartender asked no questions, and the place was practically abandoned, anyways. 

McCree wasn't even his actual name. What kinda joke of a vigilante-slash-criminal would he be if he didn't have an alias? Of course, that wasn't the reason for the name. He took it from a western movie actor, 'Jesse Roland', and the character he played, 'Two-Shot McCree'. He was shocked nobody ever noticed the reference.

Well, almost nobody. But he didn't want to think about that particular person right now. 

He had always been fascinated with the Wild West. And, hell, since he technically lived in it, might as well play the part! He even managed to develop this entire alter ego surrounding it! God forbid anybody knew that the famous Jesse McCree was actually just some wimp out of New Mexico who was only in it for the reprieve it granted him from his own issues.

That little voice in the back of his head had been there for ages, urging him to raise total hell. And, really, isn't that all he's done his entire life? Yet, somehow, that voice was still around, as if it wasn't satisfied.

For all his bravado, and all his boasting, he sure felt like shit about himself pretty often. He figured he must be a pretty sad sack of shit. But, hey, you don't show your weaknesses. Do it once, and you're fucked. That was his motto, at least. Or, one of them.

He had probably had a good few glasses of whiskey now. It was about time to stop. He got up from the bar, tossed some money on the table, and strolled out. He only gave half of what he was supposed to pay, but the bartender didn't say anything. McCree supposed he knew better than that.

It was dusk outside. The sky was painted a calming orange-pink, and you could hear crickets chirping in the distance. The little town he was in had only a few people meandering about, minding their own business. Peaceful, he thought. Too peaceful, almost.

He wondered how his mother was doing. Surely, she reacted badly to his dissapearance. Her little Matias, vanished into the night after a gang shooting, presumed dead. Or maybe she didn't react at all. Maybe she just moved on. He hoped for the latter.

All that's in the past now, though. He had a job to do. Outlaws weren't gonna apprehend themselves, and the police force was useless here, anyhow. He was certain he had a hoverbike somewhere around here-

Ring.

McCree stopped. His throwaway phone was ringing. That phone was to make calls, not answer them. Who the hell had his number...? McCree took out his phone. The caller ID was completely blank.

Everything in McCree's being told him this was a government trap, that he was finally going to be hauled off to that maximum security prison he evaded all those years ago. The phone was still ringing, though. He didn't like to not know something. And he'd be damned if he never found out who got his number.

McCree picked up the phone.

A deep voice, foreign yet familiar, rang into his ears.

"Hello, Jesse McCree. It's Winston."


End file.
